Handcuffs
by SlytherinPrincess123
Summary: Will Sherlock's new physical bonds with a wannabe art student and killer create less obvious attachments, or will they meet an untimely end, courtesy of a flamboyantly evil fan? Sherlock/OC, Rating subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: ****So, this is the first thing I have decided to upload to . I've been a member for what must be two years now? And the entire time I've written plenty of fanfiction, but I was always too nervous to upload. I'm starting with the giant cliffhanger, the first chapter being 99.99% cannon. So please, be gentle with me. Reviews are much appreciated. Enjoy. **

"Brought you a little 'getting to know you present." There was a brief pause from the man, filled with the sound of water lapping at the sides of the pool. "This is what it's all been for," the last word was drawn out. "Isn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance, all to distract me from _this_." The heels of his shoes made sharp clicks that echoed eerily.  
>That is when she heard it. "Step out." The ear piece was very loud, blaring out static. Samantha swallowed the scream she so desperately wanted to let out. Staring at the blue curtain concealing her, she found that her feet were unable to move. "<em>Now<em>, Sammy."  
>Hatred welled up inside of her. She didn't understand, she had no part in this! All Samantha had done was run to the local market on a Monday night, and now she had been thrown into some serious, very illegal stuff. Biting down on her bottom lip, Samantha stuffed her hands into the pockets of the oversized coat she wore and walked into the open.<br>She turned to face the British man who had been speaking just a moment ago. His eyes bore into her, a mixture of dread and surprise. He stood in what must have been a fairly awkward position. Looking over his shoulder at her, the same shoulder lifted, handling what appeared to be a black flash drive.  
>Had the situation been different, Samantha could have stopped to fully appreciate the man's good looks. The unruly black hair framing his face complimented him well. The dark locks flipped in every which direction, concealing the majority of his forehead and ears. He wore black, and plenty of it. His expensive looking jacket was black, as well as his trousers and dress shoes. The button up shirt he wore was light silver in color and fit snuggly across his slim chest. He continued to eye Samantha warily through dark eyelashes and piercing grey eyes. His face was somewhat narrow, sculpted by unusually high cheek bones. His neck was long, and just enough of his white chest was exposed. Soft, pale, pink lips defined his features as well, his lower lip dipping down at a strange angle.<br>"Evening." Samantha said in the calmest voiced she could amass. She flipped a red strand of hair out of her face. His eyes widened. "This is a turn up, isn't it Sherlock?" She repeated the words as they were fed to her. His name rolled nicely, of not awkwardly, from her American accented tongue.  
>"Who-" He cut himself off and sent the question in a different direction. "What the hell?" The hand gripping the flash drive tensed, and then lowered itself slowly.<br>"Bet you never saw _this_ coming." Samantha's voice shook slightly, and she cursed herself for allowing it. Sherlock was staring at her in a new way, analyzing, full of purpose, taking in every aspect about her that was visible. He took long strides closer, but stopped some fifteen or so odd feet away.  
><em>Smart move<em>, thought Samantha. The voice in her ear piece spoke up, clearly enjoying every moment of this. "Open up! And then repeat:"  
>Samantha did just that. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she began to speak again. "What," She pulled at the sides of the heinous green coat. "would you like me. To make her say. Next."<br>Sherlock didn't look surprised to see the vest strapped to Samantha's chest, various colored wires entwined with blocks of C-4. Her heart skipped a beat when she noticed the red dot of light trained on her chest that, Samantha assumed, came from a sniper hidden on the numerous balconies above the indoor pool.  
>Sherlock strolled carelessly towards her, turning to scan for others.<br>The cheap looking fur that lined the hood resting on Samantha's shoulders tickled her left ear, but she didn't dare reach to scratch it. She winced inwardly at the terribly over used joke her ear piece had just demanded she subject herself to.  
>"Gottle o' geer." Samantha said, no amusement in her voice.<br>"Again." The earpiece sniggered.  
>Samantha leaned her head to the side exasperatedly. "Gottle o' geer."<br>"Again!"  
>"Gottle o geer." Her voice was breathless.<br>"Stop it." Sherlock deadpanned, before Samantha was forced to say it once more.  
>"Nice touch, this." Samantha commented dryly while Sherlock turned his slim figure away from her. "The pool." Pause. "Where little Carl died." Samantha stole a quick glance at the swimming pool and grimy, white tile floor. She found it difficult to register the fact that someone died here.<br>"I said, 'I stopped him'!" Samantha realized she had been tuning out the only thing saving her life.  
>"I stopped him." Samantha said.<br>Sherlock took slower steps now, and Samantha had just noticed how very tall he was. Over six feet for sure. And then there was that ever so calm expression that decidedly looked everywhere except Samantha. It made her want to punch it off of his face.  
>"I can stop Samantha Jones, too." She bit out, looking down. Samantha couldn't help but notice Sherlock's left hand working up a fuss. His long, nimble fingers rubbed anxiously against one another and their neighboring thumb.<br>"Stop her heart." Samantha could have sworn that the skin below the red dot shining on her chest went up ten degrees.  
>"Who are you?" Asked Sherlock, his back to Samantha. A high pitched creaking filled the room. Sherlock turned to look at the opposite side of the pool, where the sound originated.<br>"I gave you my number..." Came a voice that was all too familiar for Samantha's ears. "I thought you might call." He continued in an overly pouty tone.  
>An unsettling silence fell over them, only broken by soft footsteps. The barely coherent thought running through her head was that this better not be because Sherlock forgot to call some bugger.<br>"Is that a British Army L9A1 Browning in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?" His voice was getting slowly closer.  
>Sherlock's hand reached into his right hand pocket and drew out that very handgun. Fluidly, he pointed it at the man.<br>"Both."  
>Samantha couldn't stand it any longer. She turned her head to see a rather short, thin figure on the other end of the pool. His hair was dark and receding slightly. His forehead was large, making his sunken eyes stand out. The black suit he wore was flashy. He gave a wry grin as he stuck his hands in his pockets.<br>"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" Moriarty greeted in his sing-song voice.  
>Samantha couldn't help the wave of anger that surged over her. A deep flush colored her ears. Everything about Moriarty screamed evil.<br>Sherlock's brow furrowed as he glanced Moriarty over, gun still directed at him.  
>"Jim?" Moriarty suggested. "From the hospital?" Sherlock's hand joined the other, which was fingering the trigger on his weapon. "Huh. Do I really make such a fleeting impression? Though I suppose that was rather the point." He continued. Samantha and Sherlock locked eyes for a moment, then Sherlock's eyes wandered to her chest. "Don't be silly." Moriarty told them. "Someone else is holding the riffle." His voice then lowered to a more threatening octave. "I don't like getting my hands dirty." He continued to make his way over leisurely. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world." Moriarty paused to lick his lips. "I'm a specialist, you see." He trailed off, then added, with much enthusiasm, "Like you!"<br>Sherlock's eyes darkened with realization. "Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me? To get rid of my lover's nasty sister."  
>A small chuckle escaped Moriarty as he rounded up on the two.<br>"Dear Jim," Sherlock persisted in his monotone. "Please, will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"  
>Moriarty was no more than three feet from Samantha, and she barely resisted the urge to pounce on him. He ran a finger over his lip and looked at her with a menacing smile.<br>"Just so." He grinned, mocking Sherlock's deep, rich voice when he turned his attention back onto him.  
>"Consulting criminal." Murmured Sherlock with a hint of awe. "Brilliant."<br>Moriarty grinned smugly. "Isn't it?" Samantha couldn't stand to look at either of them. "No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."  
>A loud metallic click sounded as a result of Sherlock cocking his gun. "I did." Sherlock corrected.<br>"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way!" Moriarty said in his eccentric voice.  
>"Thank you." Sherlock replied immediately.<br>"Didn't mean it as a compliment."  
>"Yes you did."<br>"Yeah, okay, I did." Moriarty admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. "But the flirting is over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!" He spoke with a surprising high pitch. "I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play. So take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Sherlock's grip tightened on his gun. "Although," Moriarty continued. "I really have enjoyed this, this little game of ours!" He began to speak in a deeper, dim sounding tone. "Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like that little touch with the underwear?"  
>"People have died." Sherlock avoided the question.<br>"That's what people DO!" Screamed Moriarty, his words echoing all over the place.  
>When Sherlock spoke, his voice was quiet yet far from soft. "I will stop you."<br>"No you won't." Moriarty said matter-of-factly.  
>"You alright?" Sherlock directed at a terrified and confused Samantha. When she said nothing, Moriarty walked behind her.<br>"You can talk," He said, bemused. "Sammy, go ahead." Samantha was smart enough not to open her mouth. She was almost certain the first thing she'd say would be a very colorful string of curses directed at them both.  
>"Take it." Demanded Sherlock, holding the flash drive towards him.<br>"Oh," Moriarty strutted his way to Sherlock. "that. The missile plans." His voice had become airy, finishing his words like a snake. Now that Samantha thought about it, he resembled a snake in many ways. Dangerous, yes, watching them like they were his prey, sneaky, slimy, cold, terrifying.  
>Moriarty took the flash drive and pressed it to his lips, kissing the cool plastic without removing his eyes from Sherlock. "Boring!" His voice rang out. "I could've got them anywhere." And with that, he flung it into the pool like dice at a casino.<br>Making up her mind, Samantha ran up behind him and flung her arm around his neck, the other restraining his arm. "Sherlock, run!" Samantha couldn't believe she was actually risking herself for him, but she had slim chances of getting out of this in one piece. If saving Sherlock's life was the last good deed Samantha could perform, then she was going to.  
>"Oh, ho ho!" Breathed Moriarty, struggling half heartedly. Had he not been a particularly small man, Samantha would have been thrown off with ease. "Good! Very good!" He laughed. Samantha tightened her grip on the man as Sherlock searched the balconies with his eyes.<br>"If your sniper," Began Samantha, speaking just above a hoarse whisper. "pulls the trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." Proud in her ability to sound so much more courageous than she actually was, the corners of her lips twitched into a tiny smile.  
>"She's sweet! You could use her around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets." He paused to wheeze when Samantha jerked her arm into his adams apple. "They're so touching and loyal." Moriarty tried to jerk free, but to no avail. "Whoops!" He grinned suggestively. "You've rather shown your hand there, Ms. Jones."<br>For one moment there, one fleeting moment, Samantha felt a small blossom of hope rise in her chest. Followed by a severe desire to be asleep in her bed. She knew that somehow she would get out of this. She could give Moriarty a good kick in the pants, Sherlock a stern lecture, and then skip her way merrily home.  
>But when she saw a second red light settle itself on a strand of Sherlock's dark hair, she knew that none of those could be accomplished any time soon. Or ever, for that matter.<br>Sherlock didn't need anyone to tell him what was going on. He had already deduced that on his own, and he sighed, shutting his eyes for a moment. Sherlock's weapon however, didn't stray from its target.  
>"Gotcha!" Moriarty cried triumphantly.<br>Careful of herself, Samantha put her hands up and backed away warily. Only when she was certain that her life wasn't going to end at that very moment did she rest her arms at her sides once more.  
>Moriarty dusted his overcoat off dramatically, then gestured to it with a bitter look at Sherlock. "Westwood." Samantha held back a scoff. "Do you know what happens, if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock? To you?"<br>"Oh, let me guess, I get killed?" Sherlock suggested in his signature bored note.  
>"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaced. "N-no. Don't be obvious. I mean, I'm going to kill you anyways, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying." Sherlock got the ever so uncomfortable once over. "I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you." Moriarty's voice had a shockingly sinister air to it.<br>"I've been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock matched his menace key for key.  
>Moriarty gave him a knowing look. "But we both know that's not quite true. Well, I'd better be off." He glanced at Samantha, then the pool. "Oh, so nice to have a proper chat."<br>Licking his lips, Moriarty went unphased when Sherlock got s better grip around the trigger and asked "What if I was to shoot you now? Right now."  
>"Well then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face." Moriarty wore a mocking expression of shock. "Coz I would be surprised, Sherlock, really, I would. And just a teensy bit... disappointed. And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Chow, Sherlock Holmes." He turned to make his leave.<br>"Catch... you... later." Sherlock's gun followed his exit before the door creaked open.  
>"No you won't!" Moriarty sung, and the door closed behind him.<br>Sherlock eyed the vest cautiously. "Alright?" He set his gun down by his leg. Kneeling onto his right knee, Sherlock began to unclasp the Velcro. Samantha simply threw her head back in sheer relief.  
>"Are you alright?" He asked again, more forcefully.<br>"Yeah, yeah." Samantha managed to squeak out, allowing him to slip the coat and vest off of her torso in one strong swoop. "I'm fine. I'm fine, Sherlock." His name felt different now.  
>When he yanked it's grasp from her left arm, it nearly sent Samantha barreling backwards into him. "Sherlock!"<br>He slid the bundle down the tiled floor as if he were bowling, his cool exterior slowly deteriorating.  
>Breathing far to fast then what could be considered healthy, Samantha pulled the side of her blue jacket back over her shoulder. She suddenly felt cold, very cold.<br>Sherlock cast his eyes over her once more. When he was satisfied that she was physically unharmed, he dashed to the corridor, ensuring that they had no unwanted guests.  
>She was thankful for the silence, mostly because she didn't know what to say. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw. Not just at Sherlock, not even coherent words, just strange shouts and noises until she was left to think things through in the depths of her mind.<br>Shock. That's what it was. She was in shock. For a moment, she vaguely remembered being wrapped in an orange blanket, sitting on the edge of an ambulance once, after a small house fire. She was young and had profusely demanded that they stop throwing it over her shoulders every time she turned her back. Oh, what she would give for a sodding shock blanket right now.  
>Stumbling clumsily, she let out a "Oh, dear Lord." before leaning against the nearest wall, sinking down to her knees.<br>Sherlock returned, pacing back and forth in front of her. Out of everything that happened, this strange man was what confused Samantha the most. It was obvious that Moriarty and he didn't get on well. From the sound of it, Sherlock had discovered something he shouldn't have, something involving dangerous crimes Moriarty had helped perform. Could he be with the police? Surely not. He had missile plans on him, which she was almost certain was not allowed. And about the... method Moriarty had used to communicate at first, it was obvious that Samantha wasn't the first to be subjected to that horror. Sherlock hadn't been the least bit surprised to see the explosives. Wrong. It was all wrong. Wrong and frightening, and terrible.  
>But the worst part was that Samantha felt, though she would never admit it, good. Adrenaline was pumping through her body and she had a strange urge to jump across rooftops. But for her own sanity, Samantha buried that thought amongst others, refusing to contemplate it.<br>"Sammy, is it?" Sherlock asked, avoiding her eyes.  
>"<em>Don't<em> call me Sammy." Samantha bit out. Her eyebrows knit together in worry as he scratched the back of his head with the barrel of the gun.  
>"Samantha it is then."<br>"Are you okay?" She asked, trying her best to be polite before she began the rapid fire questions that were building up inside her by the dozen.  
>"Me? Yeah, fine." Sherlock replied briskly. "I'm fine, fine..." He turned to her, staring at her kneecaps rather than her face. "That, uh, thing that you, that you, uh, did, that, um..." He cleared his throat, breathing heavily. "You offered to do, was, um." Sherlock attempted to gesture with his hands, but only looked a fool waving his gun around. "Good." He finally settled on.<br>"God, no one saw that."  
>"Hm?" Sherlock questioned, rubbing the cool metal of his weapon against his chin, eyebrows raised.<br>Samantha struggled to find the right words. "You, ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."  
>Sherlock grinned wryly. "People do little else." He said seriously.<br>Samantha only just noticed how soothing his voice was, and it worked to calm the frustration inside her. She almost felt the urge to ask him pointless questions just to hear him talk. Hell, he could read the phonebook for all Samantha cared, and she'd still listen.  
>He flashed her a brilliant smile. With a small laugh, Samantha was ready to stand and start the questioning. But before she could, a bright light shone in her eye, blinding her for a second. That was when she saw the red dot trained on her chest for the second time. "Oh-!" She shouted as two more joined the first.<br>"Sorry you two!" Came Moriarty's sing song voice as he noisely threw yet another door open. "I'm sooo changeable!"  
>Sherlock clung tightly to his weapon, four dots illuminating the collar of his button up shirt.<br>"It's a weakness with me, but to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness!" He said, positively beaming at them. Samantha stared disbelievingly at him. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't." He shook is head with fake disappointment. "I would try to convince you, but, everything I have to say has already crossed your mind."  
>Samantha wanted to yell at him that she had nothing to do with this, and she really tried. The sound that came out could only be described as a sob. A soft, pleading sound that Samantha had only ever heard herself make when she had been broken up with, or fallen down stairs (which she did quite often, surprisingly), and injured herself.<br>She tried to say something. Anything. Some brave last words. Her mind and her vocal chords just weren't on the same page. She supposed settling for some comment on ripping clothes off in darkened swimming pools would have to suffice. Fresh out of high school, and she was going to die.  
>The pathetic sound drew Sherlock's attention, and their eyes fixed onto one another's. His cool grey eyes asked, pleaded with her to notice something she clearly hadn't already.<br>Her mind was reeling. She looked to Sherlock uncertainly, then to Moriarty. What had she missed? The look on his face made Samantha ill. It said "Victory". It was everywhere. His eyes, smirk, even his stance seemed to gloat. Hands behind his back, feet spread apart. Samantha couldn't see his shoes over the bundle of explosives in front of him.  
>Samantha's head snapped back to Sherlock, and she nodded.<br>With a cold look Sherlock turned to Moriarty. "Probably, my answer has already crossed yours." His gun was pointed at Moriarty. But with a look of satisfaction, or what must have been considered satisfaction for Sherlock, he lowered his aim to the explosives at Moriarty's feet. He gave Sherlock a glare so intense with hatred that it made Samantha squirm.  
>Moriarty was a madman. Sherlock was a madman- hell, Samantha might me a madman. And for the first time that night, Samantha wasn't sure who was more dangerous.<p>

**-END CHAPTER ONE-**


	2. Chapter 2

"Now, now Sherlock," Moriarty's grin became smug but failed to loose its burning maliciousness. "Be a good boy and put the gun down." His lips curled up in what must have been a smile, but he quickly let his face revert back into its original snarl.

"And why should I do that?" Sherlock inquired with no real interest in the answer he would receive. He was simply itching to shoot. To set off the explosives. To put a bullet in this man's head. Lightly grazing the trigger with the pad of his index finger, he decided that any excuse would do.

Moriarty contemplated Sherlock's response. "Let me think. Perhaps... this?" He reached into his Westwood pocket and pulled out a sleek, black phone. The sudden movement startled the already jumpy Samantha. Hitting something on speed dial, he set the cellular device to speaker. A loud ringing filled the indoor pool. She wasn't sure what to expect, though Sherlock appeared to already know the voice that would answer.

"John..." Sherlock whispered at the precise moment a man on the other end greeted with "Hello?" Sherlock's voice was filled with the smallest hint of emotion. The only emotion, besides sheer annoyance, that Samantha had ever heard from his mouth: pain.

"Um, hello? Is anyone there?" John asked, background traffic distorting his voice slightly. When no answer came he ended the call, sending Moriarty's phone back to it's home screen, which was of the actor John Barrowman wearing a dress and heavy makeup. Samantha wasn't surprised. Moriarty grinned, returning it to his pocket.

"How about now?" He asked, mocking Sherlock.

There was a long moment of agonizing silence. Samantha had trouble baring it. Her leg had fallen asleep a good two minutes ago, and she was convinced that standing from her crouch would get a bullet hole in her chest. Sherlock had to have a plan. He just had to. The man was obviously very clever. But right now, his cold eyes were dimmed with an unidentifiable cocktail of emotions. His firm, pale lips were trembling. She hadn't really seen him as human before that moment. Everything about him was so ethereal. It was as if reaching out to touch his angular face would send him evaporating into wisps of smoke. She was sure his presence would haunt her. Perhaps for months. Maybe every few years she would think on it again. But, of course, that heavily depended on whether or not she would live to let this night disturb her.

"If I do, you don't touch him." His demand was icy and filled with a trace of venom; the pain on his face had long disappeared, but was replaced with quiet determination.

Moriarty sighed exasperatedly. "Yes, yes, scout's honor." He raised his right hand in accompaniment to his words. Sherlock's response was a tilt of the head, eyes narrowed. "Oh, _please._ I want to _wait_ to torture John. Saving it for the third date." He winked in Sherlock's direction.

After Sherlock was satisfied with his answer, he explored further. "And her?" This was followed by Sherlock's all-seeing eyes glancing over Samantha's form.

Moriarty followed Sherlock's gaze. "What about her?"

Sherlock frowned neutrally. "What are you going to do with her?"

Samantha felt vaguely childish. The two geniuses standing before her discussing her fate as if it was nothing but a side note. Nothing of _importance. _That had always been a tender subject with Samantha. As the years past through high school she began feeling less and less self conscious about how people thought of her. But the shy uncertainty was still there, scratching at the surface of her brain. For some bizarre reason, the two men unleashed that insecurity in her without even trying. Well, Moriarty was probably messing with her head on purpose. Sherlock did it without noticing, more or less.

"Oh, that's and easy one. She dies, of course." Moriarty replied nonchalantly, sending a chill straight through her.

"What? No." Sherlock answered. "She has nothing to do with this." Samantha was surprised that the sociopath in front of her would bother with something as trivial as the life of a woman who got caught up in the middle of the war between him and Jim Moriarty. Sherlock himself was some what surprised.

Moriarty ran his fingers over his lips, just ghosting his thumb over them. He side stepped the explosives, watching Sherlock with expectance. After observing that Sherlock would not pull the trigger just yet, he continued forward, but not towards Sherlock. No, Moriarty was walking straight to Samantha.

Her tented legs began to tremble. She chose to keep her sight directed at Moriarty's feet. Before her stood two un scuffed, shining, KUCII dress shoes. She recognized them from a pair her father used to own. Samantha distracted herself with noticing the way the dim light hit the black leather, pretending not to notice the body that came _with_ the shoes.

"Now, Sherlock, why on _Earth _would you care about this waste of skin?" Despite the fasiscious question, he looked fascinated. Squatting down beside her, he grabbed her chin sharply and jerked it to face him. Moriarty's eyes were wide with child-like adventure, the answer of genuine interest to him. "A pretty waste of skin, I'll give her that, but she's not like us, Sherlock. She's so mundane. Aren't you, Sammy?" His voice was so soft in her ear, so sweet. Samantha stared into his terrifying eyes. They were two large, endless pools of dark intent. Moriarty was a sick man, and she felt tears stinging her eyes from the immense pressure he was putting on her jaw. "Come on Sammy, darling, don't be shy." He tilted his head, smiling at her.

If Samantha had even been capable of speech at that moment, which she most definitely was not, she wasn't sure what her answer would be. "Samantha...?" Moriarty whispered melodically, releasing his grip on her chin. It took all she had not to simply scream. Why wasn't Sherlock doing anything?

Without warning, Moriarty's slim fingers snaked their way into her hair forcefully, griping her ginger curls with intent vicious enough to nearly rip them out. "_Answer me!_"

He screamed, yanking harder upwards, standing as he did so. With this simple movement, Samantha lost her footing on the tile. Pain scourging through her Her legs scrambled to regain some sort of leverage, anything to stop the burning sensation emanating from her scalp at that moment. She let out a yelp, reaching to rake her untidy nails across Moriarty's strong hands. "Yes!" She answered finally. "I am! I am! Please, just stop! Let me _go!_"

Moriarty released her completely, letting her fall back to the ground, gripping her head. She took in air with large gasps, looking at her fingertips which were now spattered with blood here and there. Samantha sat up, inching her way farther from him.

Moriarty turned, mouth open, prepared to continue his speech. With neither Moriarty or Samantha noticing Sherlock's silent footsteps, the cold metal barrel of a British Army Browning L9A1 prodded the sensitive flesh between Moriarty's eyes.

"Sherlock, darling, I'd appreciated it if you wouldn't point your toys at me." His surprise turned to smug joy with the blink of an eye.

Sherlock returned his grin. "Really, now? What if I enjoy pointing my toys in your direction?" His smile had an air of insincerity to it. It morphed into more of a snarl as he pushed the gun sharply into his skin. Moriarty kept his balance, though it was clear that some amount of effort was required to avoid the pain but keep his ground.

"Well then I'd say this meeting has gone even better than I expected... dear." And with that, Moriarty reached up ever so slowly to wrap his thin fingers around the barrel of Sherlock's weapon. Samantha allowed her eyelids to blind her. Even though she detested the man, she didn't wan't to see his demented brain spatter the tile simply inches away from her feet. She had seen death before, but it was far too soon to watch it happen again.

She braced herself for the loud bang that would soon sound. But no noise filled her ears. Only her breathing was evident, and a small chuckle that began to emanate from Moriarty's throat.

Looking up briskly, she caught a glimpse of Moriarty holding the L9A1. "How long?" Sherlock inquired, looking to the side with annoyance.

" Hm?" Moriarty's eyebrows shot up in questioning response, and earned an exasperated glare from Sherlock. "Oh, how long have I known it wasn't loaded? Ages."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Okay, yes, yes, I totally cheated all of you with a very short and cliff-hanger ending chapter last update. Sorry! School's been keeping me so busy. IMPORTANT NEWS: Handcuffs has reached 300 hits! So excited! And really, reviews mean the world to me. I currently only have five. I've actually had chapter 2 and 3 written for about a month now, but had no time to edit. So, here you are. Do note that I shall be adding places, dates, and times to these now. Chapter three is up, and ready to leave you all fairly excited for the next chapter. It's not completely action packed, but it's much longer than the last. Reviews please!**

Recap:

Looking up briskly, she caught a glimpse of Moriarty holding the L9A1. "How long?" Sherlock inquired, looking to the side with annoyance.

"Hm?" Moriarty's eyebrows shot up in a questioning response, and earned an exasperated glare from Sherlock "Oh, how long have I known it wasn't loaded? Ages."

**Knocks Indoor Swimming pool, Bristol, Great Britian**

**Thursday the 22nd of September 2011**

**12:53 AM**

Sherlock looked absolutely infuriated. If looks could kill, the smug man before him would be lying dead on the ground. To her amusement, his anger at being outsmarted highly resembled that of a child.

Moriarty rolled his eyes. "You're so dramatic. I can't just let you-…" Moriarty's eyes widened, glee practically oozing off of him. "Oh!" He cried, clasping his hands together. "That's just… Oh, that's brilliant!" He quickly retrieved his cellular from his pocket once again, replacing it with the unloaded gun, and began to rapidly text.

"What?" Samantha asked, her voice shaking.

He came to her, a bounce in his step, and then grabbed her by the shoulders. "I have big plans for you!" He flashed a smile at Sherlock.

"What plans?" Asked Sherlock warily. Moriarty bee lined in his direction.

"Patience is a virtue, my pet." He scorned, grabbing the L9A1 right out of his jacket and tossing it easily into the pool to join the flash drive.

He ignored the frown Sherlock gave him, turning his attention back to the text message at hand. Sherlock crossed his long arms, obviously not pleased being at his dismissal.

Cautious not to make any sudden movements, Samantha lowered herself into a sitting position. Blood coursed its way back into her sleeping leg, the pin prick sensation slowly fading. It was over. It's all over. Sherlock wasn't, and had never been, any actual threat. She certainly wasn't armed. Moriarty was in control now, and there was nothing they could do about it.

Leisurely, Sherlock took a seat next to her, his arm barely grazing hers. The sniper sight followed him. He caught her eyes and held them, seemingly analyzing her. Samantha desperately wanted to look away, but she couldn't find the strength to do it. Sherlock was surprisingly warm, heat pulsing off of him. She wasn't completely sure why she had been expecting him to be cold. Maybe it was his emotionless exterior. But there he was, his arm brushing her shoulder, snug and comfortable. Only when the sound of the door opening came did they break their gaze.

Moriarty was standing halfway out of the door. He waved enthusiastically at Samantha and Sherlock. "Good luck, you'll be needing it. You'll be hearing from me soon." He winked at the pair, savoring the feel of victory. "The game is on, Sherlock." And the door closed shut in his wake.

Samantha lowered her head, wrapping her arms around her knees. She tried not to cry. She gave so much effort to keep it at bay, but her tear ducts obviously had other plans. So she gave into crying silently, her face hidden by her fringe. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She didn't need to see to know that Moriarty had left the building for good this time. A sound that Samantha didn't recognize filled her ears, a low hissing noise.

Her head snapped up, looking to Sherlock. "Nitrogen gas." He answered. When she continued to look at him blankly, he added. "Oxygen deficiency."

She looked unseeingly ahead, resting her chin on her knees. The thing she feared the most was what would happen when, if, she regained consciousness.

Sherlock obviously detested having to give in. It was something he wasn't used to. He always won. Well, at least a vast majority of the time. He pouted inwardly, watching Samantha's back as her breath shuttered. He knew she was crying, it was bluntly obvious. Unsure of exactly how to comfort her, he considered what to do. He felt as if he should apologize. She seemed nice enough, and he had gotten her tangled up in this mess. But he would never tell her that he was sorry, never mind that she was kind to him. Apologizing was simply something Sherlock didn't do. Perhaps telling her that everything would be okay? No. Now wasn't the time for words, and definitely not lies. Uncertainly, he raised a pale hand and rested it on her lightly shaking arm.

She tensed underneath his touch, but relaxed quickly. Sherlock never understood how a simple touch could comfort someone, but it seemed to work. Samantha touched her fingers to his. The gesture caught him off guard, and he nearly pulled his hand away. But he left it there, awkwardly lying underneath hers.

She knew it was coming. They both did, and the wait wasn't helping. Soon they would be light headed. Soon after that they would be coated with a thin layer of sweat, breathing shallowly. They would get dizzy and fall into unconsciousness. After that… Well, neither was completely sure. But Samantha tried her best not to think about that. She only focused on the rigid, pleasant digits beneath her own.

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><strong>221B Baker Street, London, Great Britian<strong>

**Thursday the 22nd of September 2011**

**3:02 PM**

Before Samantha opened her eyes, she became uncomfortably aware of the sharp pain in her right arm. It reminded her vaguely of carpet burn. She groggily scratched at the irritated skin, only to find cold metal clasped around the area that burned the most. Bloodshot eyes slowly opened, catching sight of a bizarre mechanism chained to her wrist. The details were a blur, light stinging Samantha's sight, but she could make out enough to see similarities between this device and handcuffs, though much larger. It enclosed around a good four inches of her slightly tanned skin and must have been equivalent to the width of her thumb. A window of glass was located above the inside of her wrist, filled with a tinged pink liquid.

Samantha lifted her head, just now realizing that she was lying on a couch in a flat she didn't recognize. Her cheek was nuzzled against cool beige leather that had a wonderful scent attached to it. It smelt vaguely of musk, but not quite that exactly. Sleepily, she buried her face in the couch and closed her eyes again, enjoying the feel of the brink of sleep. She wiggled her toes into the arm of the couch, fighting to keep them warm.

A jingling sound filled her ears, and she tried her hardest to ignore it. She had always been terrible in keeping a decent sleeping schedule. She stayed up until five in the morning doing whatever had caught her attention at the time, and then slept until one or two in the afternoon.

She was aware that it was a terrible habit, but Samantha had always been a glutton when it came to sleep. And besides, college doors and strict schedules awaited her. She had to make the best of it while she could.

The jingling became louder and more forceful. When her brow furrowed as she continued her best efforts to pretend she didn't hear, then jingling became clanking. Flustered and half asleep she finally yelled "What?"

As soon as her eyes opened, another pair greeted hers. A very close pair of eyes. She recognized them immediately as Sherlock's. His were impossible to forget, not quite one color, but not quite the other either. He prodded her forehead with one lengthy, nimble finger. It hurt.

Absolute dread overwhelmed her. She had, at one point during her lazy awakening, dismissed the whole night as some strange food-before-sleeping nightmare. Clearly, she was wrong.

"Nice of you to finally awake." Sherlock scorned, ignoring Samantha's sudden distraction at the closeness of the two. She could feel his warm breath on her face, and it did little to distract her from his Cupid bow lips that were directly in her line of sight. When she didn't reply, those lips formed a scowl that could practically be heard.

When she tore her eyes away from Sherlock's face, she saw the rest of his lithe body perched on the arm of the couch, arms crossed. She groaned, and he pulled away from her.

Sitting up, she was suddenly jerked in the other direction by her right arm. Confused, she glanced between the two. His left wrist bore the same mechanism, a thick silver chain connecting the two.

"So, by 'plans', this is what Moriarty had in mind?" Samantha questioned, oblivious to what Sherlock had already deducted. "It isn't as terrifying as I had expected." She poked the glass containing the pink liquid.

"I disagree." She raised an inquisitive eyebrow to his statement, continuously fiddling with the bolts located near the chain. "I'm chained to an idiot. Stop doing that!" He said quickly, snatching her fingers away from the cuff. "You're going to get yourself killed, and I don't need to be carrying around dead weight."

An indignant scoff escaped her lips. "Excuse me? First, I'm not an idiot. Second, how am I going to get myself killed? You're the one who goes around scratching your chin with a handgun!"

"Of course you're an idiot." He said as if it was obvious. "Before you get yourself worked up, almost everyone is." Sherlock flashed her a brief smile that she suspected was his attempt of sarcasm. "And if you keep meddling with your cuff, it will, well… Don't mess with it."

"What do you mean?" Samantha asked with a slight hint of panic in her voice, ignoring his insults. "What does it do?"

He sighed exasperatedly. "If you keep tampering with it, it will set off a trigger which injects lethal amounts of Potassium Chloride into your radial vein."

Her eyes widened and she stared at him with a gaping mouth.

Sherlock took her chin in hand and nudged upwards until her teeth clanked together and her lips shut once more. "Do keep your mouth shut. You look like a fish when you do that."

Samantha rubbed her chin a bit, still eyeing the cuff as if it would go off at the lightest touch. "Well, this is very evil and all, but I really don't see the point." She threw her legs over the side of the couch, pressing her bare feet to the carpeted floor. She watched her brightly painted chipped pink toes part the strands of beige. "If he wanted to kill us, he could've done it at the pool."

Sherlock looked at her with the slightest hint of surprise. "Right you are. He wants us to play."

"Why would he do that?"

"Why does a sociopath do anything? He's bored." Sherlock stated as he got to his feet and paused, glancing at Samantha and staring. She took the hint and stood to follow him.

"Where are we, exactly?" She inquired, looking around as she followed him to a blue plaid armchair with a black coat jacket draped over the side. Looking around, she took in the state of the flat. Books were scattered everywhere in no particular pattern, the furniture didn't match, and neither did the wallpaper. The kitchen table was cluttered with vials and flasks and a Bunsen burner, strange liquids in all of them. She saw what she could only say must have been a jar of human eyes inside of the microwave, its black door open. It was an absolute mess. She adored it.

"Home." Sherlock replied, grabbing the over coat and staring at its thick fabric. "Moriarty left us here."

She nodded, jumping in surprise by what sat on the fireplace. "Is that a _skull_?" Her stance was awkward as she battled internally with whether or not to examine it up close.

"Yes, yes, it is indeed a skull." He said impatiently. "Don't move." He instructed. Sherlock pulled down a small lever on his side of the cuffs, and the chain fell off from his end.

"Wha-" Samantha began before she was silenced by her own surprise. Four small lights began to glow from the top of his, all green and blinking. Sherlock quickly grabbed his jacket and slipped it on his right arm and then his left. When the mechanism emerged again, one of the green lights had turned red. Quickly, Sherlock grabbed the chain and pushed the cylindrical edge of the it into a slot in his cuff until a metallic click was heard. The lights returned to green, and then promptly dimmed into an inactive state.

Sherlock turned to her "One minute at a time with the chain off. Twenty minute waiting period in between. Any longer than sixty seconds, and the trigger-"

"Will inject me with lethal whatcha-ma-call-it into my wristy vein thing. Yeah, I heard you the first time." Samantha finished, understanding what had happened now. Well, that made some things easier now. Changing clothes, definitely. Showering and sleeping? She was still hazy on those two subjects. But they would cross that bridge when they came to it.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her. He grabbed a blue scarf that had been hiding beneath his jacket's spot on the armchair. He arranged it around his lengthy neck. She examined her own state. Her dark skinny jeans had light spots of dust on the knees, and she wiped them clean with her hands. Samantha straightened out her red and white striped top as well, and zipped up her blue jacket.

"Well?" The younger woman asked him as they turned for the stairs, awkwardly positioning their shoulders to go down one at a time. "Are you going to tell me where we're off to?"

Sherlock opened the door that was labeled 221B in gold lettering. "Got a text while you werte sleeping the better part of the morning away." A bitter look was sent her way. "Told me to be at this address at four." He dug a crumpled piece of paper from his trouser pocket. In spidery handwriting, the words read "1973 Royal Drive".

Samantha nodded but before she could get all the way out of the door, a woman's voice came from behind her shoulder. "Sherlock!" She turned to allow room for Sherlock to make his way back into the flat.

His face brightened when he saw the woman who the voice belonged to round the corner. "Ah, Ms. Hudson, good morning." Sherlock smiled politely and gave the older woman a peck on the cheek accompanied by a one-armed hug. Her mousy hair was wispy and barely curled, her her short figure dressed in a deep purple dress. Mrs. Hudson grinned at the two, not noticing the chain Samantha tried her best to conceal behind their backs.

"And who's your lady friend?" She asked, kind eyes resting on her ruffled red hair and then her face. "I thought you and John were-"

"No, no, she's not my lady friend. She's a colleague." Sherlock corrected, slightly unnerved.

"Samantha Jones." She introduced herself, reaching out to shake Mrs. Hudson's hand. She pointedly decided to forget hearing that last part about John. She supposed that since Sherlock had immediately shot down the woman's opinion of the relation between Samantha and himself, but not with John...

_Well, best not to jump in the Kool-aid if you don't know the flavor,_ she thought to herself. Mrs. Hudson looked at her hand oddly, and then ignored it to hug the thinner girl.

"Any 'colleague' of Sherlock's is a friend of mine, deary." She told Samantha sweetly.

"Yes, well we better be off Mrs. Hudson. Much to do." Sherlock rushed. He gently tugged on the chain connecting them.

Samantha followed behind him. On their way out of the door she heard Mrs. Hudson say, "Are you sure? I could make tea and we could all watch some telly."

"Perhaps when we get back. Ooh, and biscuits too, if you don't mind." Samantha replied.

"I'm their landlady dear, not their housekeeper." She called after them as Sherlock shut the door.

Sherlock raised a hand and yelled, "Taxi!" in a commanding voice. It intrigued her how fast a black cab pulled up to the curb. Sherlock opened the door, sliding in. She scooted in after him and watched the street as Sherlock told the Cabbie their destination.

For a small amount of time, there was blissful silence, but she couldn't help it.

Sliding the privacy door shut, she turned to Sherlock and asked, "Who are you?"

He looked at her blankly. "Sherlock Holmes."

"That's not what I meant and you know it." She scolded him. He wanted to play games with her and she was in no mood for it.

Sherlock exchanged a glance with her for a moment and then turned to look out of the window. "I'm the world's only Consulting Detective." Samantha had opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but before she could Sherlock answered her unspoken question. "I solve murders whose solutions elude the brains of Scotland Yard. In short, that's all of them."

"How do you know more than the police?" Samantha inquired, genuinely curious.

He gave a small, wistful smile in return. "I observe. Most people look. But when I look I _see_." When he saw her face, he recognized a familiar look of incredulity. "You finished high school less than a year ago, and came to London looking for accommodation with a female relative. You're parents are overbearing, so I'd go with a cousin or sister. Shortly after you settled in with her, she passed away, leaving you to look for a flat with little to no success. You're an artist, and musically inclined. You're from the southern United States, most likely Georgia or Alabama, though you're parents are from the north. New York, perhaps. Maybe Massachusetts."

Samantha's expression held little to no emotion. There was nothing there except for pure astonishment. "…How?" She asked.

"You're obviously out of high school. You sleep for surprisingly long periods of time, so you couldn't be on a college schedule. You're between the two. Easy. The way you speak is very strong, so you've been trained to use your diaphragm well. Now, you're American with no hint of a Londoner's accent so you haven't been here for very long either. The tag on your jacket says 'Caitlynn Jones', clearly a female family member. A mother would most likely not let her daughter borrow her jacket, nor have taste in a one of the sort." He eyed the picture of glasses which were taped together in the middle, and the sharp teeth on the jacket. "So sister it is. You get on with her well if she's letting you borrow her clothes, you wouldn't move out unless you had to-"

"But how did you know I was moving?" She interrupted, unable to resist that key piece of knowledge.

Sherlock's eyebrows arched. "Oh, right, newspaper print on your fingertips. You've been searching for a flat. Also on your hands- charcoal. The writer's bump on your right middle finger is engorged, so you've been drawing or writing recently, maybe both. Black residue is very faintly etched into the impression of your finger, but all your hand is very clean and-" He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. "smells of soap. So yes, you must use the charcoal on a regular basis. Also, you have an odd mix of southern and northern accents, though the first is more subtle. The more likely case is that you're parents are northern. So very simple."

He dropped her hand coldly, leaving her feeling slightly violated. In a quieter tone, he added, "And your sister, was it?" Samantha nodded. "You must have been there when she died. Last night you were much calmer where most would have broken down. You've seen death before."

She looked out the window, avoiding his gaze. "You got it all right. Give or take a bit."

**Author's Note: So there it is, you guys. Hope you loved it. I am going to start Chapter 4 A.S.A.P! I'd like to thank the following users for such wonderful reviews:**

**Brownbug, who has reviewed twice and been so lovely! XXX**

**Rubberbird, who was sweet enough to check out Handcuffs! :D**

**Chick, who I don't know, but hey, reviews are reviews! Thanks! 3**

**And then there is Areai Moonlight, who has been my plot Watson and done so much to help futher my plot. Lots & lots of love!**


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